


all the faults you've left behind

by kay_emm_gee



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Memory Loss, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7119355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myrcella was always good at keeping secrets--in her family, you had to be. When she finds the supposedly dead King in the North hidden away in the Dornish palace, she couldn't be more shocked, or more torn once she gets to know him even as he struggles to recall who he is. And so, in a twist of fate, she begins to find herself keeping secrets <em>from</em> her family for the first time. </p><p>After rebellion rises from the desert sands and a narrow escape from a bloody massacre, Myrcella finds that the Young Wolf may be the only person whom she can rely on in a increasingly dangerous world. Even as circumstance and family loyalties try to pull them apart, she can't help but put her trust, her life, and even her heart in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“He looks dead.”

“He almost is.”

“Then why--”

“Shut up, both of yeh. And get to work. They’ll be back soon.”

Heat. Flickering torchlight. The scent of sweat and clotting blood. Pokes and prods and pain that is bone deep, soul deep. Anger, regret, grief. _Grief._ Death.

“More bandages.”

“Fuck, it just keeps pouring it out of ‘im--”

“ _Shut yer mouths,_ and pack those wounds. Do you want those Bolton bastards to find you back here?”

Pressure--poke and prod, poke and prod. Pain. Pain. Pain. No better, but then...no worse either. Maybe not death.

“Ain’t they gonna ask to see the body?”

“We’re gonna give them a body, idiot.”

A blade drawn. An intake of breath before _squish_ and _crack_ and _thunk._ Retching and a disgusted snort.

“Take this one to the soldiers outside, boys. Tell them to sew the direwolf’s head onto it.”

“ _Why?_ ”

A cracking slap, a whimper.

“Because I said so, idiots! And because if you give them a fucking spectacle, they won’t think to ask about seeing the body’s fucking head!”

More noises: dragging, gagging, grumbling. Then just the crackling of the fire and a heartbeat.

* * *

Creaking, crashing. The smell of salt and mildew. Tipping and rolling and blackness spinning. Searing ache from shredded muscle and cracked ribs. From loss, from grief, from a broken and betrayed heart.

_Seven gods, seven heavens, seven hells._

Going to heaven wouldn’t hurt this much--so hell it must be.

* * *

Heat.

_Hell it must be._

Dryness. A burning dryness.

_Hell it must be hell it must be._

The course rasp of wind against sand and stone. The course rasp of Common but not anything that sounds like home.

 _Hell it must be hell it must be hell it must be_.

* * *

* * *

Myrcella heard noises behind the wall opposite her bed, and she clutched at her sheets. Blood rushed in her ears--and not to her cheeks--because it wasn’t Trystane’s soft footsteps and polite knocks that had her sitting up in the dark room. For months they had been using the secret royal passageways to see each other after hours. Never had she heard or seen anyone else using them--until tonight.

From the moon high in the sky outside, black and silver shadows stretched across her bedroom walls, glinting off the many candleholders. She dared not light one. Whoever was moving through the walls would see, and then they would know she was awake, that she could have heard them. Myrcella considered Dorne her home but not all in the country she had come to love considered her one of them. For all that she loved Trystane and wanted more than anything to marry him, to enjoy a life with him, she was still a princess in a foreign land, a bargaining chip, a Baratheon and a _Lannister_. She was an outsider.

She was indeed all of that, and so she silently slipped out of bed. The tile was cold and smooth underneath her bare feet (her mother would be horrified how often she went without shoes here). With practiced care, she approached the wall and pressed her ear to it. She noted several low voices: all Dornish, all speaking Common. She could not make out what they were saying, but Myrcella stayed at the wall regardless. It wasn’t until the whistling of a cool strong breeze--cooler than most she had felt in this country of salt and sand--coming in through her window made her shiver that she returned to bed.

When she whispered the news to Trystane over breakfast the next morning, his mild concern unsettled her more than it comforted her.

“I heard _voices_ ,” she insisted.

“Maybe it was a ghost,” he teased, biting into an orange slice.

Myrcella wrinkled her nose at him in feigned annoyance while biting back the urge to snap at him. She was certain about what she had heard, but she was just as certain that either Trystane really did not believe her, or he knew more about the voices than he was willing to admit. So she stole a plum off his plate instead and wrinkled her nose again, this time in mirth. She did not, however, forget about the voices behind the wall.

* * *

* * *

Gold and red--the walls of his room were gold and red, and it made him want to heave.

He wished he knew why. Maybe then he could fight the nausea better.

He gasped, and pain rippled through him, making him gasp again. More pain, not enough air, and only one candle to see by. It made him almost wish he was in hell instead of here, wherever that was. Being shut up in this windowless room drifting in and out of sleep--more in than out--certainly felt like being in a tomb. Still, he was struggling to _breathe_ , and that meant he was alive, no matter how much waking up in a panic and a pool of sweat and sometimes piss convinced him that he maybe shouldn’t be alive.

The wounds in his chest told him he shouldn’t be. The pain in his heart told him he shouldn’t _want_ to be.

He breathed anyway, evening out his inhales and exhales just in time to drift off into oblivion again.

* * *

* * *

The more days passed without Myrcella hearing anything more from behind her wall, the more curious and impatient she grew. She took to dragging a chair next to it, sitting and waiting up half the night. The past two mornings she had woken up there, barely managing move the chair back and crawl into bed before her maids found her.

When Trystane announced--to both their disappointments, as separations always were for them--that he would be traveling for a few days, her only consolation was that it would give her an opportunity to explore the passageways. She couldn’t have risked it with the chance that he would come to visit. With him gone, however, there was nothing to stop her.

So the first night of the prince’s absence, Myrcella wrapped herself in her darkest shift, lit a candle, and pried open the secret door in her wall. She coughed, as she always did, when she stepped into the narrow passage. Centuries of dust and cobwebs had accumulated, though she had cleared much of that away over her months of trips to Trystane’s rooms. That was to the right, though, and the voices from the other night had faded away to the left. Steeling herself for an unpleasant journey, Myrcella stepped into unknown territory. With one hand, she kept the candle aloft to chase away the darkness as well as any nasty critters and slid the other hand along the rough stone passage wall for balance. When she came to her first fork, she took the small pot of rosy lip stain from her pocket and made a mark on the wall. She had gotten lost on her way to Trystane once, and that was definitely not a mistake she planned on making ever again.

Four more forks, two of which she had to double-back to, and she finally saw a place where the floor had been wiped clean of dust from a door opening. Satisfaction stole through her, but it was quickly replaced by trepidation. She had no doubt been right that there had been other people using these passages, and recently too. Confirming that was one thing, but pursuing it further was quite another.

She only hesitated for another few breaths before pushing the spring mechanism to release the door. It opened silently, just like hers, as if someone had anticipated the need for stealth. The room was dark, and it was only her candle that provided light as she stepped inside. It surprised her that she did not immediately see weapons or gold and jewels; that was the secret she had expected. Instead, there was a bed, and nothing else.

As she moved closer, however, she realized with a jolt that she was wrong. Myrcella stared down at the man in the bed, clad in loose breeches and nothing else, save yards of bandages wrapped every which way around his pale chest. Dark curls fell over eyes ringed by dark circles, and his breathing was quiet but ragged in the still, stuffy night air.

Her own breath stopped when she realized she recognized the injured man. Even though it had been years ago, she remembered seeing him that first time in the yard, cold wind biting at her cheeks and her toes going numb from the mud seeping through her delicate slippers.

The man lying in the bed, looking as if he had been through all seven hells, was none other than Robb Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my first serious foray into writing for GoT - oh boy. I'm open to suggestions/corrections on the world details as well as any other story-related thoughts :) I've only ever watched the show so my knowledge is mostly based on that + some wiki reading. 
> 
> Also for reference I'm setting Myrcella at age 17 and Robb at age 19 at the start of this fic which is based on information from the GoT (TV) wiki and using Myrcella's retconned Season 5 age for reasons that will become relevant in later chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

Myrcella slammed the stone door behind her, pressing her forehead against the cool smoothness. Her breaths came quick and fast, and her frantic heartbeat rattled her ribcage. She had run all the way from that room back to hers after--

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of Robb Stark lying on the bed wouldn’t disappear. Pressing her palms harder against the wall, she rocked her head. It didn’t make sense.

 _Robb Stark was supposed to be dead._  A rider had come from the Martell ‘contacts’ in King’s Landing with the news three days ahead of the official royal messenger. Relief tinged with sadness had come to her with both announcements. Ever since the war started, it was difficult to reconcile the Robb who smiled while ruffling his sisters’ hair and wrestled with his wolf with the one who ruthlessly killed scores of her family’s bannermen. The attractive, charming boy she had known at Winterfell had turned into a man who was a threat to those she loved. It was the boy she was sad for, not the man, but either way, with him dead, her family would be far safer.

 _And why was he_ here,  _of all places?_  Dorne had no love for either of her families, but neither had Prince Doran declared for any of the false kings. Unsurprising, given the prince’s inclinations towards compromise over conflict. And while his court might have been cruelly amused by the houses of Westeros tearing themselves--and the land--apart, they viewed it all as beneath them. Dorne had never truly seen themselves as subjects of the Iron Throne, never had and never would. That she learned early and often upon coming to her betrothed’s country. But if Robb was here, alive…they may have chosen a side after all.

Myrcella pushed back from the wall, nearly stumbling over the hem of her nightshift. Her hands itched for a quill, but her mind worked faster than her reflexes. She wanted to warn her family, she  _had_  to, but--she was one Lannister surrounded by Martells, by a dozen other Dornish families. A hundred, a thousand more of them stood between her and King’s Landing. Her message wouldn’t even make it past the Water Garden gates before the Prince knew of it, before  _both_  princes knew of it. She wouldn’t last long in Dorne after that, no matter how much Trystane loved her.

Swallowing thickly, she recalled his playful denial of voices in the passageway. Whether he knew or not, someone in his family was responsible for bringing Robb Stark to Dorne. Someone at court wanted the King in the North alive. They supported him, which meant that someone at court wanted her family off the throne. Her hands started to shake.

She loved her family. She loved Trystane. How much of a threat was Robb Stark in Dorne, really, especially given his condition. Myrcella blinked in the darkness of her room, remembering.

_The flame of her candle flickered as she wavered in the doorway, casting long shadows on the walls of the small room. They threw Robb’s face into sharp profile, but Myrcella knew it wasn’t the light making him so pale, the circles under his eyes so dark. The rest him was more colorful. Shades of yellow-green and purple-red bruises and bandaged wounds covered his bare chest. Her breath caught as she counted them, a dozen or more. He couldn’t be alive, not with that many serious wounds, even if they looked on their way to healing._

_Slowly she took a step forward, breathless. She trembled as she reached her hand out. She half expected his corpse to spring off the bed. That was how it went in the stories Joffrey told in the dark of their nursery when their mother wasn’t around: the fair maiden devoured by wolves, or sea beasts, or the living dead. He didn’t move a fraction, though, not even when her knuckles brushed against his cheek. She stifled a small gasp at the slight but definitive warmth she felt. Carefully she uncurled her fingers and traced his cheekbone. Her eyes flicked up to his, but they stayed closed. When she looked at his chest again, Myrcella saw the wounds but also the slow rise and fall of breath._  

_Robb was alive. Immediately she snatched her hand back, curling it against her chest. As soon as she did, he finally moved. It was small, and he was still asleep, but his head turned towards her, like he was following the feel of her hand._

_She looked at him for one more moment before fleeing._

Robb Stark was alive, but he wasn’t going anywhere soon, not locked in a windowless, doorless room, and certainly not with the healing injuries he had. So, after taking a deep breath, she relaxed her hand, then flexed it. Myrcella turned on her heel, climbed into bed, and stared up at the ceiling. A soft breeze puffed her long pink curtains out, and her hair tickled her neck. She resisted the urge to brush it away, too focused on her plans.

Her plans to wait, to watch, to listen.

Her family had to know of Robb’s survival, but they didn’t have to know  _now._  Eventually, she would tell them, when she could. When Trystane returned and she was safe--or saf _er_ , because she was still a princess in a foreign land--under his protection once more, she would get a message to King’s Landing, somehow. And by then, she might know even more to tell them about the seemingly immortal Young Wolf.

For now, though, she thought of the boy she knew and the man who died, and Myrcella wondered which one of them was now lying in a bed hidden in the walls of the Dornish palace.

Which one she would be condemning to death yet again.

* * *

For the second time that day--or night, he wasn’t sure which--Robb awoke, lit the candle by his bed, and glanced around the room. It was all he could manage. He had tried more, after waking in this room for the first time. The searing pain had stopped him immediately. The third time he tried, in as many days, he managed to sit up on the edge of the bed. He hadn’t the strength to stand for more than a minute, though. It was enough time to relieve himself, but not enough to search the walls for the hidden door that must be there.

He had stopped trying anything seriously exerting for the moment. He would need his strength to leave this place--wherever he was--and while he rested, he could plan his escape. Robb believed he knew the room by heart by now, but even so, he looked again.

The walls and ceiling were cream-colored rough stone, with the floor mostly that but also packed with dirt. It was reddish brown, so he guessed he was somewhere south or east. Pushed into a corner, the bed was simple wood, dark, strung with rope that was old but well made (though not well enough to come from a seaport city). He slept on a thin, musty, straw-stuffed sleeping pad. The thick candle on the large, flat rock next to the bed was not fine enough for a noble or rich house. It didn’t tell him much else, nor did the flint next to it.

Squeezed between the end of his bed and the wall was a well-made box. On top of it rested a large canteen of water, and in it was flat, dry bread--again, suggesting south or east--and strips of dried meat. Robb had eaten some of it in the days he’d be conscious here. The first bites hadn’t stayed down, but slowly he got used to solid food again. Given that the canteen had refilled itself twice that he could remember, someone had come through to refill it. Robb had tried to stay awake to see them, but he couldn’t manage more than a few conscious hours at a time, which was why he figured there must be something in the water. Maybe milk of the poppy, maybe something foreign to him. He thought about not drinking it at all, but if he wanted to escape, that wasn’t an option. Small sips, not too frequently, was the best he could manage.

Nothing could be used as a suitable weapon. The rock next to his bed was too heavy even if he was at full strength. The box and bed were both bolted into the stone floor and walls. There wasn’t even a chamber pot that he could use to bludgeon someone with, just a small hole opposite the corner where the bed was. A weapon wouldn’t be much use anyways if he couldn’t find his way out of this small room. Yet again Robb scanned the walls, looking for a door. In a few days, he guessed he might manage a walk around to feel for cracks or fault lines. Impatience plucked at him again. It was maddening, to just sit and wait. He knew nothing about where he was, who had captured him, or even  _when_  it was.

He had to get back to the war, to his army, back to his mother and siblings and Talisa. Whatever battle he had fallen in, it must have been terrible, based on his wounds. At least it would be worth it if they took Casterly Rock. Urgency gripped him even tighter as he thought of his loved ones again, and he fisted his hands. When he had first awoken, he had called out over and over again. Desperately, then angrily, then despairingly. Screaming for someone, anyone to reveal themselves and tell him why he was here and when he’d be going home. All to no avail; days later, and he still had no answers, just a raw throat.

It was mystifying, why he was being held. Even after hours of contemplation, because what else could he do in his condition, Robb still didn’t have a good answer. If it was the Lannisters or the Greyjoys holding him, he wouldn’t have survived his injuries. Yet he was alive--being held prisoner, but alive. It was times like this--when his mind went in circles at the possibilities--that he was tempted to drain the canteen, to fall into oblivion. Every passing hour it seemed a better alternative than rotting away in this dank, windowless room and choking on his restlessness.

He had just taken a first sip when he heard a creak from the opposite wall. The canteen tumbled from his hands as he struggled to sit up. The spilled water soaked his sheets, but Robb didn’t care. He needed to be ready: to bargain, to interrogate, to do anything to get out of this room. Even to fight, though he was in no condition, because there wasn’t another option but escape.

A door in the wall opened, and a tall, dark-haired man in plain clothing walked through. His face was harsh and weathered like the men of the north but without their fair coloring. Robb took in the rest of him--broad middle, scarred hands that he clasped behind his back, open stance--and straightened on the edge of the bed.

“South,” he finally rasped out.

The man raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“I wasn’t sure if I was in the south or the east. Now I know: south.”

The man’s mouth stayed in a firm line, tilting his head as if assessing Robb in a new light. The look wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t cruel either. Robb still was wary, because a man who gave so little away required careful consideration. He tensed as he took a step forward.

The man paused but stood his ground, then said, “I was told you were astute.”

“If you are also, then you’ll know what I’m going to ask next.”

“You are in the south, with friends. That is all I will tell you.”

“That is a load of horseshit,” Robb spat back. He sat up, even as his arms shook from the strain and the anger. “I want to know where my wife and mother are, where exactly I am, why I am here, and who the hell you are.”

“I have said all that I can.” The man pursed his lips, his dark eyes flashing even in the dim light of the stone cell.

“You damn well haven’t!”

Robb stood to confront him, but the man was too quick. Seeing the movement, he deftly treated towards the still-open door. Robb was barely a step away from the bed before he was gone and the grind of the door swinging back into place filled the room. He let out a frustrated cry before sinking to the floor.

As he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the hot tears--from the pain of his stretched wounds as well as the uncertainty--he realized he was still alive. He had faced his captors and was still alive. They needed him, or something from him, and if that was the case then...then there was hope. Hope that his army, or his loved ones, were alive and well, enough so for him to be ransomed to.

It was a small, bleak kind of hope, but still it took root nonetheless. Robb held onto it and used it to pull himself back into bed. For now, he would rest, get his strength. Later, and his escape, would come soon enough. Others were counting on him, so he would be ready; he had to be.

But for now, Robb laid back, closed his eyes, and thought sadly, fondly of home.


	3. Chapter 3

The man had been to visit him thrice more, but Robb had not learned any more about his location, his family, or the identity of his captors.  _We are keeping you safe_ , the man had said,  _and I know no more than that._  And as absurd as it seemed, Robb started to consider that the man might be telling the truth. He had not been tortured, nor had his family been threatened--not yet, at least.

No one had visited him apart from the man, and he could not tell if it was a blessing or a curse that it was so. His wounds slowly healed, and soon enough he regained some of his former strength. Even with that small consolation, it was near impossible to be kept in the chamber with no news of his loved ones. Were his wife and mother safe? Were his sisters alive? Or his brothers? The questions slowly ate at him, turning his mind and soul to tatters. They kept him awake at night, filling what little sleep he did slip into with horrible dreams--bloody, soulless dreams of not being able to save those that he loved. He always awoke from them screaming.

He never knew what to do when that happened. Most times he grew angry, because he had let the terror win. Those nights he would get up and train as he did during the war, channeling that rage into hastening his recovery. Sometimes the fear was too strong, though, and he could only lay abed paralyzed until it left, or sleep claimed him again. On the very rare occasion, Robb would not wake up entirely, just drifting in that place between dreams and the waking world. It was there that it was safest, because the blood faded but his loved ones stayed. They lingered there with him, quietly, close enough for him to see their faces, but also just out of reach. Each time he tried to touch them, however, they would vanish, and then he would wake, no longer afraid but empty instead.

Still, he kept trying to reach them, and they kept slipping through his fingers like mist disappearing upon sunrise--until finally, during one awakening, his fingers touched the softest wisp of fabric. Robb grabbed at it, grip firm even as the phantom tried to pull away. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he saw a brief flash of white before the chamber went dark. He still clutched the fabric--soft, gauzy--in his fist and reached out to steady whomever was there. A waist, slim and low, was what his palms fell on, and immediately its owner let out a cry of distress.  _A woman’s cry--_ that startled him into letting go.

As he heard the woman rustle away in the darkness, he fumbled for the matches under his pillow. After finding the fallen candle on the floor, he lit it and held it up.

A young woman, Robb immediately realized from her stature. Older than his sisters, younger than his mother--his age, most likely. She froze when the candlelight fell on her, hands plastered along the wall, as if searching for the exit.

“Who are you?” He demanded.

She didn’t turn around, remaining silent except for her rapid, shallow breathing. Her response, her reluctance to face him, her youth, even her clothes were out of place. She wasn’t one of his captors, Robb figured out quickly. Rising slowly from the bed, but moving no closer to her, he tried again, more softly, “Please tell me who you are.”

He saw her ribcage expand slowly, then deflate, before she slowly turned to face him. As she moved, her brassy hair caught the flicker of the flame, seeming to hold it captive, and by turns, hold his attention captive. It took his gaze a moment to land on her face, her frame, and his breath caught a little. Even in the dim light of his poorly made candle, she was stunning. She was younger than him, he would guess, but not by many years, and her clothing was elegant, that of a lady.  _Entirely odd_ , he thought, as he looked her up and down. She crossed her arms over her middle, and he looked away. Assessing her had been simply to ascertain if she was carrying anything--a weapon, a key--that would be of use to him, nothing more.

  
Realizing he was frightening her, he set the candle down on the floor and sat back on the bed. “I apologize, my lady. I mean you no harm. I just…” he trailed off, not know what he actually wanted from her. As he glanced back up, she did not relax her arms, but her eyes seemed less wary.

Robb tried a different track next. “How did you come to be here?”

After a few moments where she seemed at war with herself, she finally tried to speak. It came out a too-soft rasp, however,, and he almost smiled when she looked embarrassed. Immediately, though, she tried again, straightening up as she said quietly, “It was an accident.”

“Well,” he replied, as he looked around the room that clearly resembled a cell, “I can’t say the same for myself.”

A flash of incredulity in her eyes at his dry joke, and then they were guarded again. “I’m expected back by my lady. Soon.”

Robb considered her, and whether or not her words were true. They were said evenly and firmly, without hesitation. So--they either  _were_ true, or she was good, very good, at appearing calm in the face of potential danger. And from her position, she certainly had to consider he might be a danger to her. The more he thought about it, maybe he was.

He searched for something else to say, but his thoughts couldn’t focus on anything besides wondering if she could be his way out. There was was little chance she could exit without allowing him the opportunity to escape. And though it pained him to think it, she was no match for him. She would be no impediment to him running fast and far away from this prison. There were no guards with her, most likely, as by her own admission she was here by accident. It was the perfect opportunity. He leaned forward, wincing slightly at the stretch of his healing wounds. He wished he was stronger, but another chance might not come along. It was now or never.

When he looked back up, she had moved toward him, not away. It surprised him, as he had expected her to try to flee. Her gaze was so steady as she approached, and finally she was close enough for him to see that her eyes were a very bright, deep green. When she was only an arm's length away-- _so close, just grab her and force her to show the way out_ \--he caught the faintest whiff of something sweet and fresh, heard a slight movement of her skirts, and then--the room was plunged into pitch black.

Immediately he heard her running for the exit, and he cursed, lunging forward to reach for her.  _Clever girl had kicked the candle over._ He wasn’t quick enough, however, and a moment later he heard the stone grind shut and close him in once again. His momentum had him slamming into the wall regardless, and he slapped his palm against it. It stung, but less so than the knowledge that he had lost a good chance at freedom, even if it did not sit right to consider using a woman as leverage in his escape.

Pain in his wounds forced him to retreat back to bed. Once seated, he let his head drop into his hands, palms pressing hard against his closed eyes. Freedom was what he craved most, but even in this dire circumstance, he was not sure it would not be worth letting his principles slip away.

* * *

Myrcella greeted the dawn by pacing in her room. Back and forth she had gone all night, the skirts of her nightrail swishing against the tiles as her mind raced. It was foolish, utterly foolish of her to have gone back to that room. She knew better, and it had ended almost as badly as it ever could have. Robb had not used her to escape, but it had been a near thing. What her mother, or her grandfather, would say to her--would scream at her--if they knew what she had almost allowed.

 _But they don’t know what happened. They don’t know that Robb is here, alive._ She was the only Lannister who knew the King in the North was alive and apparently getting better by the day.

Swallowing, Myrcella crossed to the window and gazed out at the gardens. Steam rose off the thick jungle of plants as the sun’s rays began to streak across the pale pink sky. It lingered in the air, stagnant, much like life was in Dorne. The pace was unbearably slow here, even slower than at court in King’s Landing, and Myrcella no longer enjoyed it. In fact, most days she was annoyed at the lack of stimulation. It wasn’t dull when Trystane was present, but he was not due back for another few days. She should have been able to endure the boredom for at least that long. Curiosity should not have won out.

But it had, and Myrcella gripped the thick windowsill as she replayed her interaction with the former boy king. He was much like she remembered, but somehow even  _more_ , in every way, than he had been five years ago at Winterfell. In fact, he was no longer a boy, or a king, just a young man. She blushed at recalling her fleeting infatuation with him. It was a girlish flight of fancy, a flash in the pan that burned out even faster because her mother had noticed. With each loud and repeated story about the uncouth ways of the Northmen, how they were hardly any different than the wildlings, her mother had tried to douse her attachment like water dumped over kindling. And Myrcella had let her, had let the flame go out, because she knew that her mother would not tolerate two of her children marrying Northerners.

She grimaced at that, because now none of her mother’s children would be marrying Northerners. Cersei Lannister nearly always got her way, in the end. That was one of the first lessons Myrcella had learned, and heeding it had served her well so far. Whether she should heed the nagging feeling to inform her family of Robb’s survival, however, she had yet to determine. The debate was never far from her mind, especially with so few things in her day to otherwise occupy her. So focused on weighing the options throughout her morning routine, she did not notice the letter being handed to her until the servant placed it beside her breakfast plate.

Seeing her name in Trystane’s hand on the outside of the parchment, she tore it open hastily. Excitement at potential news of his homecoming, however, soon soured into confusion. Her first read was so swift that she thought she had misunderstood his message. Starting again, she read through the letter once more with better care, then again, before she let the disappointment and bitterness sink in permanently.

He had written to tell her of Joffery’s wedding plans, and of his own father’s related orders. Since the Prince of Dorne could not travel to attend due to his health (or more likely, Myrcella thought, did not  _want_  to travel and leave his throne unattended), he was sending representatives in his stead. Trystane’s uncle, Oberyn, was being sent, as was Trystane. Her initial assumption had been that she would be going with him, as she was his intended and the brother of the groom. Upon rereading, however, she learned that she was  _not_  going to be traveling back home, but rather would remain in Dorne.

 _I believe this will be a good chance for you to stand on your own in our country_ , he had written,  _and show our people and my family what I already know, that you will be a good and capable leader for Dorne, and that this is now your home too._ She frowned, because it was her betrothed’s hand but his father’s words. It was absurd, that she should be kept from her family’s celebrations. The letter crinkled in her hand as her grip on it tightened with frustration. Not that she cared to see Joffery or his wedding in the least, but to see Tommen, and her uncles, and even her mother--her heart ached from missing them. She loved Trystane, but she did not love his family or Dorne. She was trying, for him, but this decision to leave her behind felt almost like betrayal.

Myrcella began blinking back angry tears. He had not even thought to give her the news in person, which meant she was to be given no chance to argue her case and change his mind. That was no doubt his family’s doing as well. At the very least, Trystane should have at least come to say farewell to her, but apparently he was to finish his current trip west and then travel directly to King’s Landing. And here she would be, abandoned to his absent father and disagreeable cousins for another set of long weeks.

A knock at her door sounded, and she wiped her eyes dry. Rapidly, she tore the letter into small pieces, threw them into the warm morning wind, and watched them scatter. Stifling the bitterness she felt, Myrcella lifted her chin high and called for her maid to enter.

 _They might hold her here_ , she thought proudly,  _but she would not play the role of captive, not now, not ever._  So she would go about her routine as always, smile on her face despite the anger she felt inside.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first serious foray into writing for GoT - oh boy. I'm open to suggestions/corrections on the world details as well as any other story-related thoughts :) I've only ever watched the show so my knowledge is mostly based on that + some wiki reading. 
> 
> Also for reference I'm setting Myrcella at age 17 and Robb at age 19 at the start of this fic which is based on information from the GoT (TV) wiki and using Myrcella's retconned Season 5 age for reasons that will become relevant in later chapters.


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